


You're Not the Same

by Spooteh (Pawfoot)



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Attempted Rape, F/M, Sexual Harassment, Soulless Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-18
Updated: 2012-08-18
Packaged: 2017-11-12 09:08:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/489165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pawfoot/pseuds/Spooteh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life with Sam sans soul is unpleasant enough for Martha.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're Not the Same

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Great Sartha Exchange on tumblr using i-ain’t-even-bovvered’s prompt “Martha and Soulless!Sam or Lucifer!Sam.”
> 
> A note on Soulless!Sam and consent: When I was discussing what I feel is the most triggery scene in here with my beta, she was concerned about characterization, because she feels that Soulless!Sam wouldn’t rape someone. I agree that if his partner were to repeatedly protest, Soulless!Sam wouldn’t continue, because he’s more hedonist and morally ambivalent than evil. He’d rather have sex where everyone is having a good time. But I do think he has no qualms about continuing if the consent is unclear or dubious. Hence the scene that occurs. He sees Martha as thinking “This isn’t the time for this” rather than “I don’t want this.”

When Dean calls her about Sam’s return, she’s tracking a crashed Cyberman ship with Jack. Initial scans indicated all the Cybermen onboard were destroyed, but it’s best to be careful with Cybermen. So she can’t just drop everything and hop a plane to America.

She frets about it the whole time. At first, Jack’s amused, looks up pictures of Sam and makes half joking comments about a threesome. But around the hundredth, “But why hasn’t he tried to contact me?” he’s understandably a little annoyed.

“He’s been dead for a year,” he says. “That changes someone, Martha. And a year’s a long time for most people. He’s probably worried you’re involved with someone else.”

Martha smiles, thanks him for putting up with her freak out, and they locate the ship without much more “my lover’s returned from the dead” drama. Minimal Cyberman drama as well.

And the she is finally, finally on her way. She tracks them down on her own, because she wants to be a surprise.

Now, standing in front of a motel door in Illinois, she’s nervous. What if he doesn’t want to see her?

She takes a deep breath.

_You are Martha Jones, and you are brilliant and a star. The Doctor himself said so. You are going to knock on this door, because someone owes you a very good explanation for not calling._

Resolved, she raps on the door.

_God was he always so tall?_

He looks surprised for a moment, but he smiles as his eyes sweep over her. Martha feels oddly uncomfortable under his gaze, and his smile is unfamiliar, almost wrong. Shrugging it off as nerves, she smiles back at him.

He steps back from the doorway to let her in, and Martha starts when the door bangs shut behind her.

Standing here, in the type of motel room that had become so very familiar to her during the Apocalypse that Wasn’t, guns and knives on the table, she wants nothing more than the truth.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t think—“

“No!” And suddenly, she doesn’t just want answers, she wants, needs, to lash out. Sam is here, alive and seemingly whole, and she finds out from Dean? Unacceptable. “You didn’t think. It should have been you. You should have told me.”

Sam smirks at her, and how dare he find this funny. Martha crowds into his space; she doesn’t care that she’s easily a foot shorter than he is. If ever she deserved to punch a person in the face, it’s now.

The moment she’s close enough, Sam grabs her waist and bends down to kiss her fiercely. Martha’s gasping for breath when they break apart, clutching Sam’s shoulders because she has to practically go on point to make up for the height difference.

“I missed you,” he breaths into her ear before kissing down her neck.

Which is very distracting and all, but Martha knows something is up.

”Sam, wait,” she says, pushing at his shoulders. “We need to talk about this.”

“Later,” he growls, nipping at her collarbone.

“Now,” she insists, but she feels his familiar hands on her back, sliding under her shirt, and her body relaxes instinctively.

This is not right, something in her brain insists, struggling to push through the haze of hormones. Whoever this is, it isn’t Sam, cannot be Sam. Her shorted-out brain comes to itself when this this that is not Sam undoes the clasp of her bra, and she knees him in the groin.

Martha darts away as he goes down, grabbing a gun from the table.

“Who the hell are you?” she demands. “Because you are not Sam.”

“I’m getting really tired of people saying that,” the thing on the floor mutters.

The door opens, and Dean stands in the doorway, looking from the thing on the floor to Martha.

“What the fuck did you do?” he demands, focusing on not-Sam.

At the same moment, Martha says, “What is he?”

Dean shuts the door before he answers. “He’s Sam. More or less. His soul is gone.”

“How?”

“It got left in the Pit. Look, Martha, could you put the gun down?”

She does, but not before putting the table between her and Sam.

“And you didn’t think I needed to know this?”

“I didn’t know when I called you!” Dean protest. “I only just found out.”

“So what are we doing about that?”

“We’re going to get it back.”

Life with Sam sans soul is unpleasant. He doesn’t try to touch her again, but he seems supremely confident she’ll go to bed with him eventually.

And he’s doing all he can to entice her. It starts with him at least trying to be subtle. Martha finds him sprawled artlessly over couches, one arm stretch over his head so his shirt rides up, displaying the prominent vee of his hips. Sam’s other arm drapes over his leg, fingers just barely brushing his inseam in a way that looks not quite accidental.

“Room for two,” he says when he catches sight of her.

She ignores him and continues looking for the book Bobby wanted.

Then he gets less subtle. Although Martha gets her own rooms, it seems like every time she has cause to visit the brothers Sam is shirtless. Once he’s coming out the shower, still damp, and towel low on his hips.

When this fails to get results, he really starts to push it.

The guy hawking the spell they’re after will only deal with one of them, so Martha is left behind in a sweltering Arizona motel room with Sam while Dean goes to retrieve the goods.

The heat is no excused for Sam to lounge around in nothing but his boxers.

Martha is very determinedly not looking at him. Instead she pours over their latest find in the quest to return Sam’s soul. Like all the previous finds, it’s proving itself useless.

Sam sighs theatrically. “Dean won’t be back for hours, you know. We could have some fun.”

Martha glares at him. “What is it going to take to make you understand that we don’t do this?”

The smirk is back. “But we do Martha. Oh, we do. Don’t you remember that time after Carthage? So glad each other was alive, and so scared we wouldn’t be for much longer. The second we had a moment alone you threw me onto a bed and rode me until your legs gave out.”

“You’re not that Sam,” she protests.

“Or the time right before Detroit,” he continues. “Our last time. Do you remember that, Martha? I lay you out and kissed you everywhere. Just explored you until you were quivering and ready to beg. And then I made love to you. A little sentimental, but that’s what I thought at the time.”

Sam smiles indulgently, as if the idea of being sentimental, or giving a damn, is adorably naïve. Like he’s better now.

“Do you know what I’d like to do to you today? First, I’d get you out of those clothes. It’s so hot in this room; it’d feel so good, Martha. I’d kiss you as I lower you to the bed and bite at your collarbone. I know how much you like that.”

“Not from you,” she snaps.

“Then I’d mouth my way down your body, suck at your breasts and bite at your hip bones. Tease you until you’re so desperate to have me between your legs, you’re dripping. When you’re finally squirming and begging me to give you at least something, I’d lower my mouth to your cunt and lick you open.”

“Shut up.”

He puts a ridiculously disappointed look on his face. “But Martha, don’t you want to know how it ends? Then I finger you until you’re desperate for me to fuck you. It’d take a while; you’re very stubborn. But I’d get there eventually; get you to the point where you’re begging for my cock. And when you’ve reached that point, desperate gasps and ‘pleases,’ I’d give it to you. Fuck you into the mattress until you can’t walk straight.”

He leans back against the headboard, satisfied Cheshire Cat grin firmly in place.

“I’d give it a 7 for the buildup, but you really dropped the ball there at the end. Got lazy,” Martha says, willing her voice to sound derisive and not shaken.

“Guess I’ll have to try harder next time,” he says.


End file.
